The Torch Bearers
by Elaine Kaelar
Summary: Dave is sent to a strange place that will become his entire world.
1. Chapter 1

The van continued to drive through the mountains, constantly gaining altitude. Even though it was still early October, and still relatively warm where he had come from, frost threatened to create icy swirls down the window, obscuring his view of the green wilderness. His breathe rose in a frigid mist. It hung dense in the air for a second before dissipating into nothing. Theoretically, the heater was on, but he couldn't feel it. He stared at the shrouded view before him as it grew darker outside. The darkness brought with it numbness.

He had no idea where he was going. He had been given a choice, and he hadn't been able to make it. The judge had made the decision for him. He only remembered bits and pieces of the one-sided conversation that had taken place. The words "lucky" and "sudden opening" kept repeating themselves in his head, but other than that, he knew nothing about where he was going. Some place in Montana. Some place that was neither a jail nor a juvenile detention center. The person who had sat with him in the court room had seemed happy about the decision made for him.

He shifted positions on the long bench seat in the back so his head was not touching the freezing window. The driver had not said one word to him the entire trip. Suddenly, through the sheen of ice, he realized they passed through some sort of gate. A few minutes later, they passed four huge lights. They reminded him strangely of stadium lights. Probably for searching out runaways.

"Not long now," the driver finally said. He spoke in a raspy, gravely voice.

He just nodded once, to show he had heard. He stared straight out the windshield. Since there was no ice film there, he could see the limited view of the road in front of him illuminated by weak headlights. The faint circle of light did little to chase away the dark. It seemed as if they weren't moving anywhere at all, but stuck on an endless road forever. Even though his senses were wired in anxiety, he slipped into unconsciousness as "not long now" stretched to almost another hour. Suddenly, the van rattled to a halt. His head snapped up, trying to regain alertness.

He was still blinking rapidly as the door next to him was yanked open by the driver. He got out, and instantly started shivering. His street sneakers crunched through the top coat of ice that covered the deeper snow; he felt like he sank down several inches. He looked around to see gently lit cabins perched around the rolling hillsides. A figure was coming forward from one of the bigger cabins. It was short, and walked very briskly through the snow towards him and the driver. It was bundled in a very large coat. He was trying to figure out who or what it was when an irate female voice emanated from deep in the hood.

"Nice of you to make it," the woman said coldly. The driver started to sputter, but quickly silenced as she glared at him. He saluted gravely before retreating back to the van. The woman ignored the driver, turning back to look at him. She cocked her head, nodded, then turned and headed back towards the cabin. Was he supposed to follow her? He was answered when she reached the door and turned to look at him over her shoulder.

"You aren't really prepared to spend the night outside, you know," she said. She wasn't as sarcastic as she had been with the driver, but her voice was still sharp. He still jogged across the distance to the cabin. She was right. He had been standing outside for five minutes, and his teeth were chattering and he couldn't feel his toes. She held the door open for him. The warm air seemed to burn his numbed face as he looked around the room.

It looked like a cross between a resort cabin and an office. There was a small desk off to one side, with a very decrepit looking computer on it. Beyond that was an office that she led the way to. There was a much grander table with what looked like a quill and inkpot sitting next to a thick stack of papers. Bookshelves lined every available wall space. The woman took her hood off, revealing a short blond bob. She went to sit behind the large table, and pulled a file out from somewhere under it. He stood there nervously in front of her desk, not knowing what to do.

"So you are the new fill-in," she said, looking him up and down. She cocked an eyebrow, as if she wasn't sure she approved of him.

"Yes," he said. He wasn't trying to sound sullen, but his voice came out that way.

"You will address me 'Miss,' when you are speaking to me, Mr. Morgan," she said coldly.

"Yes, Miss." It barely came out as a whisper. Now he was scared. What type of loony bin had he been dumped into? And she didn't even open his file; but knew his name?

"And you are here because…" she trailed off, waiting for him.

"Runaway," he answered quietly. She gave him a look of disbelief. She had probably already read his whole life's story, what little there was of it.

"That's what the judge said the charges were… Miss," he protested. If she already knew the answer, then she shouldn't ask any questions.

"I see." She finally opened his file. "That will do for right now." She looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost ten o'clock. "It's too late to move you to your bunk tonight; you'll have to sleep in the visitor's room. Lights out is at ten. Breakfast is at 7." She got up and started down the hall. Not wanting to be left behind, he followed. She continued talking as they made their way down the hallway.

"You are to report to the front desk at six forty-five. That's the one with the computer. Don will escort you to the mess hall. After that, we will move you into your cabin." They had reached the guest room where he was to spend the night. She opened the door and turned the light on for him. It was a nice room. Much nicer than anything he ever remembered having. A large quilted bed took up most of the space, and a nightstand with a lamp on it. Another bookshelf was wedged impossibly into the small room, filled with books.

"Your bathroom is right here, across the hall," she said, indicating the door. "I suggest you get to bed quickly, you have six minutes until lights-out." She looked around the room once more, as if to make sure everything was in order, before gently closing the door. "Good night, Mr. Morgan," he heard softly. He stood next to the bed for a minute, still in shock. Then he figured he had better use the bathroom.

Coming back to the room, he realized something. She hadn't locked any doors. He thought of the bitter cold outside and reconsidered any idea of escaping. There weren't any windows either. How would anyone know when he turned the light out? He smiled faintly. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. These people, or at least the woman, had no idea what she was doing. Out of curiosity, he leaned towards the bookshelf to see what some of the bindings said. He barely registered "The Incredible Journey" when the overhead light went out. He was instantly plunged into darkness.

It took every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep from screaming. He blundered into the bed, and gratefully fell down onto it. He found the light switch by sliding his hands along the wall, but clicking it had no effect on the dark room. He sat there for a moment, trying not to panic. Closing his eyes had little difference on his view of the room, but it seemed to be easier to slow his breathing down when they were.

He rooted around until the covers were undone enough for him to worm under them. As he lay there shivering, a faint ring of music came to his ear. His teeth were chattering so much he wasn't sure if it was his imagination or not, but before he could be silent enough to listen further, it was gone. The heavy quilt was doing its job, and he was slowly warming up. Without realizing it, he dropped into a fitful sleep.

Merely seconds later, it seemed, he woke up. There was no question this time. Somewhere, very close by the sound of it, a bugle was being played. He started in confusion, almost falling off of the bed. He remembered blearily where he was and groped for the door. He looked down the hall confusedly for a moment, trying to re-orient himself, before noticing there was a door down the other side too. This door had a window in it, with weak sunlight filtering into the hallway. He ran down the hallway, throwing the door open in time to catch the last notes of the snappy reveille sounding throughout the camp.

He stared at the young man as he brought the horn down smartly, turned on his heel, and marched back to one of the cabins. Before the bugler had left sight, two other, younger boys came bearing a bundle to the central cleared ring in the middle of the cabins. He saw a pole in the middle, and after a moment of confusion, realized that the bundle one of the boys were carrying must be the flag.

Great. He was stuck in the middle of nowhere in a right-wing crazed boot-camp. However, his sneering thoughts cut off as soon as he saw that the colors being hoisted were not the red, white and blue that he had been expecting, but rather a field of dark blue with a golden torch emblazoned on it. He looked at it curiously for a moment before he realized that he was standing outside in sub-freezing temperatures in only jeans and a t-shirt. He ran back into his room, wincing at his frozen toes.

The first thing that he noticed was that the light was able to turn on again. The clock that was hanging over the bed told him it was a little past six in the morning. He shook his head and looked at it again. Right. He fell back into the bed. The little nest he had made for himself was still warm. He rubbed his toes, trying to regain circulation. Soon the softness of the covers lulled him to sleep again.

He dreamed… There were voices all around, yelling, screaming. Every ally he turned down, they were, there, waiting for him. The ground was slippery, but it was too dark to see it. He slid into a brick wall, cracking his kneecap. As he clutched his leg, a gurgling noise came from behind him. There lay his boss, covered in holes. His dying eyes seemed to bore into his own, as his breathy gasps reached his ears.

"Squid. Squid!" It seemed to take as much effort as if the youth was shouting. He was unable to move as his former leader's arm reached out to him, grasping the air. "Squid…"

Suddenly there was a loud knocking. He wallowed in the covers for a minute before they were pulled smartly off of him. He groaned out loud at the wave of cold air that smacked his face, forcing him to rub his eyes.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," a sarcastic voice said. He looked up to see a tall, wiry man with brown hair frowning at him, the blankets from the bed held in his crossed arms.

"I know it's your first day and all, but really, you could have at least followed the simple instructions to be up in time for your breakfast. Or do you get room service where you come from?" He was taken aback by the man's mocking tone, and leaned over to look for his shoes… they seemed to have gone missing.

"Look, there's an easy way to do this and a hard way. Around here, when someone says something to you, you say 'yes, sir' until further notice. Got it?" the man snapped. He glared for a minute and then asked in a gentler voice, "Do you have a name, boy? All I was told was to collect a Mr. Morgan and see that he makes it to breakfast on time and in one piece. You might get the in one piece part," he chuckled. "But I don't know about the on time, rate you're going. Anyway, I'm not one for misters, so what do they call you?"

"Dave," he said quietly. "That's what my mom called me."

"Well, Dave, I'm sure in the future you'll wake up in time on your own. You won't want to miss meals around here. I'm Don," the man stuck out his hand, "the assistant headmaster."

"Yes sir," he said, cautiously shaking Don's hand. Don grinned and threw the shoe he couldn't find at him.

"Come on, Princess, I'm hungry."

Dave followed the assistant headmaster silently through the snow-covered cabins. There were footprints all around, and the little barracks seemed to be deserted. Everyone was already at breakfast. By the time they reached the Mess Hall, a large rectangular building with funny blobby little buildings hanging off it to one side, he was shaking uncontrollably in his thin sweatshirt and jeans. Don glanced at him a couple times, and Dave thought for sure he saw him shake his head, but the tall man said nothing else until they climbed the stairs to the main door.

As they walked inside, Dave's jaw dropped. He vaguely heard Don telling him not to move, that he would be right back. There were maybe three hundred people in the Mess Hall. Talking, laughing, eating, milling around the long tables were boys both younger and older than him. The only thing that reminded him that this was not a normal place was the fact that they were all dressed the same. Mostly.

Almost everyone he saw was dressed in the same heavy jeans and boots with different colored flannel shirts. He saw groups of green, yellow, red and blue, with a scattering of black throughout the crowd. Also scattered around were those that had no specific dress. He saw a group of people in khaki green with brown fleece urgently discussing something at the end of one of the far tables, and some others in dark blue were hanging around the coffee machine on the far wall.

Don came back presently, and flourish what looked like a flying saucer at him.

"This," he said, smiling, "is your mess kit. You will bring it with you every time you come here, and wash it and take it back to your room every time you leave." He nodded to the side wall, which had an open counter with trays full of food behind it. "Get in line."

Luckily, Dave thought, the tail end of the line was still waiting to be served breakfast, so he wouldn't be noticed for being so late. He already felt conspicuous in his oversized t-shirt and too small sweatshirt and jeans. Don had to show him how to open his mess kit; he wouldn't have been able to figure out the contraption otherwise.

He stared in surprise when they got to the window. There were boys younger than he was dolloping some grey mush into the offered bowls. Farther down the line, other boys were ladling some syrupy substance or spooning dark brown powder into the bowls. These boys had white aprons on over their goldenrod plaid shirts. Farther behind, in the kitchen, he saw boys in black shirts running around, stirring huge cauldrons, probably full of more mush.

Carefully, he stuck his bowl out to get whatever it was he was eating for breakfast. The boy who ladled the mush into his bowl looked him up and down as he did so and winked. Dave automatically smiled shakily back, and hurried to catch up with Don, who was having the dark brown syrup poured on his mush. After the bowl was filled to the brim with equal parts mush and syrup, he jerked his head over to an empty part of a table for Dave to follow him there. He expertly walked without spilling a drop of the brimming bowl to the table.

"Molasses?" Dave jerked his attention to the boy with the syrup.

"Sorry?" he asked.

"Do you want molasses on your oatmeal?" the boy asked, emphasizing each word.

"Um, no thanks," Dave said quickly. He headed to the boy who had the powder.

"Brown Sugar?" this boy asked. Dave looked at it. He had never had brown sugar before that he knew of, but it looked better than the molasses stuff. He nodded and stuck out his bowl. The boy gave him a heaping spoonful, grinning as he did so. Dave nodded again in thanks and hurried over to the table where Don was sitting. Sometime during Dave's decision making, Don had found a pint-sized coffee mug and was busy chugging it down. He put the mug down as Dave sat down.

"You had best eat up, boy. You're gonna need all the help you can get today," he said in between enormous spoonfuls of the gook—oatmeal, the boy had called it. Dave looked at his bowl dubiously, but his stomach growled. Don chuckled as Dave cautiously put a spoonful into his mouth. He was pleasantly surprised by the taste. It was warm and nutty, and highly sweetened by the sugar, even if it did have a slimy texture. He shoveled about half of the bowl down before he looked up at Don.

"Yeah?" Don asked, still grinning. He seemed to be waiting to for Dave to ask him something. Dave looked around for the question that would give him the most information for the least amount of talking.

"What is this place?" he asked.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/n- I know that there has not been any marching band in this story so far, but wanted to explain that it comes later. Promise. :) _

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><p>Don sucked in his breath, taking apparent relish in his explanation.<p>

"This would be Wandering Torch Ranch. The most envied and debated correctional facility on the planet, I'm sure," Don said. He stuck his nose in the over-sized coffee mug before continuing. "Back when the Miss bought all this property years ago, she wanted to do something to make the world a better place. Then the economy turned sour, and she kept reading about all these kids getting turned out back onto the streets on account of there weren't any funding for orphanages and the like. Well, there weren't enough kids to do like she originally wanted and make a good school up here, so she turned it part orphanage, part school, part social-worker's nightmare there's so many parts.

She knew that not all those kids who had ridiculous sentences were bad, and wanted to give the redeemable ones a second chance. Chance to live, and prove themselves. Yup. We started out with thirty three boys, so we did. And we just kept growing and growing. Highest success rate in the country."

He noticed that Don puffed up proudly as he said that last part. Don acted like it was a big deal.

"So, what do I do?" Dave asked warily.

"Do?" Don asked. "What do you mean what do you do? You live here now, as long as you earn your keep. You'll learn some of the most important things in your life here. You'll go to school, build trails, raise animals, grow food, do chores, and sometimes, you'll even have fun. You'll learn how to live. That's what you'll do." He checked the big clock hanging at the front of the hall.

"First though, we got to get you all checked in and accounted all formal-like. Most of today will be formalities, sort of an introduction, since you missed yesterday. Well, let's get going," he said, hefting himself up from the table. He carried his dishes to the side of the hall where three tubs of water and a trashcan stood. He plunged his bowl and spoon into the first tub, which had the remnants of suds still floating around in it. Then he swirled them around the second tub, which was full of cleaner water and no suds. Finally, he rinsed them in the last bucket.

"Make sure and scrape all your extra food into the trash can afore you wash those," he said, heading towards the coffee machine. Dave looked at the bottom of his bowl; there were only a few spoonfuls left. He flung the bowl's contents into the trashcan before kneeling down to scrub the dishes, scowling distastefully. His scowl disappeared as his hands scrubbed the inside of the bowl. The water was pleasantly warm. He got the rest of the oatmeal off as best he could and rinsed the dishes in the other two. By that time Don had come back with another mug of coffee. He looked positively gleeful.

"Alright, so we're gonna go get your stuff now. Close up your mess kit so you don't have to carry it in pieces, boy, that's the point of having it all in a kit. Alright, follow me." Dave had to hurry to keep up with the man. He lost track of where they were going as they wound their way through the village of cabins. He glanced up as they passed the flag pole, thinking about the name of the place. Wandering Torch Ranch. For some reason, he liked the sound of it.

They stopped in front of another building that was smaller than the others, but still had the same cabin-like appearance. Don opened the door and beckoned him inside. Shelves made a thin aisle-way through the entirety of the shed. Stacked there were boxes, bags, and who knew what else. Don was muttering to himself as he looked at the markings on the outside of the boxes.

"Maybe this one, but I don't know, he's a scrawny little feller…" He mumbled around some more, poking and peeking into boxes.

"Help me out son, how old are you?" he asked Dave. Taken aback, he stammered.

"Uh, I'll be fourteen this next month."

"Fourteen, rounding up of course… would be pointless to have you get settled, then just to have you move in the next month… that would make it red," he said, finding the right box. He pulled out a red and black plaid flannel shirt and held it up. "That should do it, just fine," he said, pulling out three more.

"Here, catch," he flung the shirts at Dave, while pulling down another box. This one contained jeans that were lined in grey flannel. He collected three of these, along with heavy wool socks, a fleece-lined hat, underwear, two different coats, sturdy boots and long underwear to go beneath it all.

"Let's get you settled into your bunk," Don said, herding the boy back out of the storage shed. He put the heavy lock back in place before turning off to the right. They passed several of the shack-like cabins, stopping in front of one that had a large sign designating it the "Fox" cabin. Carved into the sign were paw prints and images of foxes camouflaged into leaves and brush. A bigger tail and paws were visible above the word "Fox". Snow lay heavy on the top, obscuring the creature's face. When Don went inside to make sure everything was in order, Dave reached up and knocked some snow off of the corner. Two bright eyes stared down at him. He could have sworn the fox was laughing at him; the carving appeared far too life-like for Dave's comfort.

Don came back out the door, startling the boy out of his reverie. He raised his eyebrow at the boy's shocked face.

"Come on in, mind you don't trip on the door, and don't drag that pant leg through the snow," he directed. Dave glanced down and twitched the offending pant leg back over his arm before going up the steps and through the wooden door. Inside it was like a large, many bedded version of the cabin he had spent the past night in. There were sixteen smallish beds that lined the walls, eight on each side. In between each there was a small, single-drawered table. There was no one in the cabin right now; all the bunks were neatly made with patchwork quilts of various red shades. Dave stared at the rows of beds. It looked to him like something that came out of a fairy tale more than a delinquent correctional facility. Not that he knew much about fairy tales.

Don waved him to the third bunk on the right. A small number 11 was carved into the foot of the bed, revealing the pale wood under the darker varnish. A small notebook appeared in Don's hands. He was busily scribbling in it, muttering to himself. He paused only to open the trunk at the foot of the bed and peer into it. After he was sure it was empty, he motioned for Dave to deposit his armload of clothes into the trunk.

"So this is where you'll live and sleep and everything else, Fox 11." He pulled a set of clothes out from the trunk. "Follow me."

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><p><em>An- I know every author says this at the end of just about every chapter, but reviews are awesome. Even more awesome is if you take 30 seconds to link this or any other story you enjoy to someone else you know will enjoy it. :) Written word is meant to be shared, especially when it is enjoyed. _


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